


Her Boys

by wisekrakens



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Impala Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:01:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wisekrakens/pseuds/wisekrakens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Always, always, she is with her boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Boys

Sometimes her boys take her on their hunts. Sometimes she’s close enough for flecks of blood and dirt to cling to her sides and underbelly, but more often she’s left on a back road, a sleek black shape in the shadows shuddering between menacing and damning, depending on whose eyes spy her.  
  
Once, she was so near that her boys’ bloods mingled alone on her roof and windows and side. She had stood silent then, too, as a reminder to one and a comfort to the other.  
  
Sometimes her boys leave her parked in shitty parking lots in front of shitty motels while they sleep, or on the sides of streets while they track their prey. The first doesn’t happen often. The second happens all the time.  
  
But most of the time, she’s roaming the open pavement with one of her boys behind the wheel. It’s freedom, pure, unadulterated freedom, and it’s what she represents more than anything. More than family, or duty, or strength. She’s freedom and belonging at the same time, and the contradiction would tear a lesser object apart. But she’s what she is, and she stands firm.  
  
She’s told this all to her boys, taking advantage of the one time she knew she could. The one who hits his head on her roof splutters about curses and witches with senses of humor before going silent under her gaze. The one who fixes her when she breaks looks back at her and she thinks, with her first thoughts, that he understands about freedom and belonging and how they keep each other from tearing themselves apart.  
  
Her boys find the witch soon after that, and then there is no more explaining.  
  
Occasionally, very occasionally, she breaks in shrieks of bending metal and flaying paint. Her boys take her home very, very slowly, and then the one who fixes her begins his work with careful hands while the one who hits his head on her roof and the one who smells like whiskey and scratchy beard watch from their tower of books.  
  
The one who fixes her when she breaks pours love and curses into every turn of his wrench and pass of his paint gun. It’s the way he is, and she stands steady for him even when she’s propped up in a dozen different places. He whispers things to her about the one who smells like rainstorms, sometimes; he has, ever since she thought to tell him what she was, like her bulk gives him comfort when the others can’t. And once, when the one who smells like rainstorms visits when the one who fixes her isn’t ready for him to, she stands witness to their shouting and the hot, hidden, infant tears of the one who fixes her as he slides beneath her belly.  
  
Always, always, she is with her boys.


End file.
